Chapter 5 - The Glass Room
The hallway led to a large, windowless room in the center of the building.
The walls were lined with metal shelves holding hundreds of glass vials. In the center of the room sat a laboratory-grade centrifuge, a digital scale, and several plastic crates filled with shipments of a chemical labeled: D-Glucitol / Hepatic Catalyst.
Beside the scale sat a stack of shipping labels addressed to my sister’s home.
"This is it," I whispered into the microphone hidden in my collar. "Vance, I have the lab. He’s got the chemicals here."
"I'm calling it in," Vance’s voice crackled in my ear. "Move to a safe position, David. We’re moving in."
Before I could turn around, I felt a sharp, burning pain in the back of my neck.
Dr. Miller stood behind me, holding a long veterinary syringe. His face was twisted in a desperate, animalistic terror. He had plunged the needle into my shoulder, injecting a thick, clear liquid into my muscle.
"You're his father," Miller whispered, his voice shaking. "I know who you are. Grant said you were stupid. He said you would never find out."
My legs went cold. The room began to spin, the metal shelves stretching into long, silver corridors. I dropped my tool bag, my hands clawing at my neck, but the drug was already moving through my veins.
"I have to clean up," Miller muttered, running to the counter and grabbing a gallon of industrial acetone. "I have to burn it. I have to burn everything."
I fell to my knees, my vision blurring. Through the fog, I saw him pouring the flammable liquid over the crates, over the shipping labels, and over the desk where his records were kept.
He struck a match.
The room exploded into a wall of bright, blue flame.
"David!" Vance’s voice screamed in my earbud, but it sounded like he was underwater.
I lay on the floor, the heat of the fire pressing against my face. The smoke was thick, black, and tasted of sweet poison. I couldn't move my arms. The drug was paralyzing my muscles.
I'm going to die here, I thought. Just like Emma.
But then, through the roaring of the flames, I heard her voice again. Not from the recorder, but from my memory.
"Daddy... listen to Winston."
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I couldn't let them win. I couldn't let them burn the evidence of what they had done to her.
With a scream that tore my throat raw, I dragged my useless legs forward. I reached out, my fingers clawing at the metal desk leg, pulling myself toward the filing cabinet where the shipping manifests were stored. I grabbed the thick binder, holding it to my chest, and began to crawl toward the exit as the ceiling began to collapse.
